


Fortune Favors the Bold

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, M/M, Off-screen Implied Character Death, dubious ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles trips over someone’s leg. He scrambles for distance and gets his back to a dumpster before he sees who he tripped over — if it’s someone he knows, if it’s someone alive.</p>
<p>It’s both, as it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune Favors the Bold

The air tastes like it’s still burning from the blast, and nearly everyone Stiles knows is dead. It’s been two days, the grief sits like a heavy weight in Stiles’ chest, and while he’s dodging a mob by ducking into an alley, he trips over someone’s leg. He scrambles for distance and gets his back to a dumpster before he sees who he tripped over — if it’s someone he knows, if it’s someone alive.

It’s both, as it turns out.

Deucalion looks terrible — rather worse for wear, considering that Stiles is used to seeing him so clean and presentable in the crisp lines of his clothes. To see his clothes wrinkled and his hands and face covered in dirt and ash, well… it’s a tad unsettling, but no more than the world exploding in nuclear fire, Stiles supposes.

Tilting his head toward Stiles, Deucalion sniffs the air. “You," he says. “I’m surprised you’re alive."

"Don’t be," Stiles says. “I’ve got a good instinct for survival."

Deucalion’s smile is narrow, fanged. “As do I."

*

They survive together, in a manner of speaking. Deucalion really is blind. For all that his other senses make him quick with his reflexes and hyperaware of his surroundings, it’s Stiles who decides which path they take, a choice only tempered by the few times that Deucalion warns him about other groups of people — approaching threats or departing ones. It works for a while, their uneasy partnership. Deucalion is efficient in eliminating the people who try to steal from them, despite Stiles’ protests.

"They’re just trying to survive," Stiles says. He sounds like Scott. He didn’t think he would ever sound like Scott, but maybe that’s all he’s got left of Scott now — that compassion for others, the understanding. If this is the compensation he gets for his best friend dying, then Stiles would rather give it back. There’s no room for sympathy now. Not in this world. Still, he says, “They’re not so different from us."

Deucalion’s fingers flex at his sides, dripping blood and bits of flesh. His claws click together and then ease back. He kicks his feet around until he finds the dead body, then kneels, and wipes his hands off on their clothing. It doesn’t make his hands cleaner, really, but it reduces the blood to mere smudges.

"If they were better at surviving, we’d be the dead ones instead of him," Deucalion says. “Be grateful you’re alive and eat the food he would have taken from you."

Stiles tries to eat, but he can never keep much down. He figures that it’s psychological because it’s not like he isn’t hungry. He’s been anxious and off center ever since the bombing, and nausea is near constant. What he manages to swallow down sometimes rises like bile in his throat — guilt that he’s alive to eat while his friends and family are dead. If Deucalion has the same problem, Stiles wouldn’t know what to even look for. He doesn’t talk about his pack or his past, and Stiles wonders if they were even close or if it had always been a temporary truce between all of them, a connection always doomed to be cut even if this was too soon.

He doesn’t stare at Stiles — how could he, but Stiles has the distinct impression of being given a focused amount of attention, like Deucalion is listening closely to make sure he eats. Dinner is canned peaches and crackers — too early in the post-apocalyptic mess still for them to have gone stale, so Stiles is grateful. They taste overly sweet on his tongue, enough to make him gag, but he swallows it down and breathes carefully to keep from throwing up.

*

"Listen, can we stop?" Stiles asks. “Is it safe to stop here?"

"I don’t hear anyone," Deucalion says. 

He drops his hand from Stiles’ shoulder, and immediately the fatigue Stiles had been ignoring and headache that had been gathering at the back of his skull become strong enough to leave him staggering for support. They’re in a neighborhood. It looks trashed already, but Stiles heads to the nearest one and plops down on the front step. He’d intended on go inside but the idea of making his way even five more feet is exhausting enough without having to attempt it.

"How do you feel?" Deucalion asks.

"Like I’m barely surviving the apocalypse, asshole," Stiles replies with a rasp. “How do you think I feel?"

"I think you feel like you’re dying," Deucalion says as he sits on the step too, body turned toward Stiles, one foot planted on the ground and the other on the polished hardwood of the porch floor. He curls a hand behind Stiles’ neck and pulls him close — not to hug, but to press his nose against Stiles’ throat. “You smell like chemicals."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Stiles asks. “Don’t say anything if it’s not going to be something that makes sense!"

Deucalion’s fingers squeeze at the nape of his neck and the headache, the weariness just leeches right out of him. Stiles slumps forward in relief. His hand reaches back to cover Deaucalion’s, and he feels the pulse of Deucalion’s veins as they draw away the pain.

"I thought it could’ve been medication at first," Deucalion begins to explain. “If it were your Adderall, that would’ve faded in the first few days. The smell’s lingered. Every day your scent is more sour and your body is weaker."

Stiles sags a little lower with every word. “So I’m dying," he says and shrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. His hand comes back with strands stuck between his fingers.

He feels his expression starting to twist as he realizes what it is that Deucalion has sensed. Stiles has seen these symptoms before, but not for a long while — not since his mother and her miserably short battle against cancer. The chemo had been rough on her, and the symptoms like these, much slower in onset — but the queasiness, the endless fatigue, the headaches are all the same.

"Radiation," he says. His voice sounds blank. “This is so dumb." 

Stiles turns to look at Deucalion. As usual, the guy’s a hard read — mouth turned into a faint frown, red eyes hidden behind sunglasses. There’s nothing about him to inspire comfort. They’re barely acquaintances after a week and a half like this, and a part of Stiles still screams ENEMY when Deucalion puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. They aren’t friends. They aren’t pack. 

But Deucalion is the most familiar face Stiles has when he croaks out, “I don’t wanna die. It’s not fair that I survived this long when everyone else—"

Stiles stops, covers his own mouth, and chokes back a sudden sob.

"I don’t wanna die," he repeats as Deucalion pulls him against his chest. He’s crying and it feels horrible, like it hurts to pull in every gasp of air. Like he couldn’t stop crying if he wanted to. It’s better that he can hide his face against Deucalion’s shirt, smudge his tears in the dirt and dust while he mumbles, “This sucks and I hate it."

"Shh," Deucalion offers as he pets the back of Stiles’ head soothingly. “You’re very strong. Everything will be fine."

Stiles wraps his arms around Deucalion’s shoulders. “No it won’t."

Deucalion hums, still petting him but in smaller strokes now — over the nape of his neck again, along the arm that’s crossing under Deucalion’s chin. It takes a while for Stiles to calm down to mere sniffling. He feels fragile and thin compared to Deucalion, though he’s sure that he hasn’t lost that much weight. It’s just that— dying, you know? He’s pretty much figured that he’d die somehow. Running around with werewolves, what else could he expect besides an early grave? But it had never been like this: slow, wearing him down from the inside out, eating at him until he couldn’t hold it all in. It would’ve been better, probably, if the bomb had just killed him right off, but then Deucalion might be— No, Deucalion would’ve been fine. He’d have found a way. He always did.

"Better?" Deucalion asks.

Stiles sighs. “Not really. Still dying," he says.

Deucalion hums, hand heavy over Stiles’ neck and the other sliding down his back — soothing still, calming sweeps of his palm until Stiles melts in surrender. He’s so tired. He could probably sleep for another week and not feel rested.

"When I figured out that something was wrong, I considered what I was going to do about it," Deucalion says in a soft voice. “I couldn’t let you die because I needed you alive, but neither could I risk the bite killing you too soon."

"The bite?" Stiles echoes.

"Yes," Deucalion says, then quickly tightens his grip on Stiles and holds him still as he sinks his teeth in Stiles’ shoulder, right through the shirt.

The pain is sharp enough to drive away any sense of weariness — at least for a second before Stiles’ head is throbbing again in time with his shoulder. Deucalion’s bite tightens briefly before withdrawing, and he rubs his fingers over Stiles’ neck, waiting.

"You’re such a douchebag," Stiles shudders. “You need me around that bad?"

"Yes." Deucalion’s reply is short, simple. Stiles waits for him to elaborate, but he never does.

"Do you think the bite will take?" he asks softly, looking at at the wound. It’s bright red, but the blood is thin, oozing sluggishly.

"Just remember what you told me before," Deucalion instructs. “You said that you have a good instinct for survival, so what do you think?"

Stiles huffs and tries to smile. “I think we’ll have to see in the morning," he says, and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://rrrowr.tumblr.com/post/53161028151) on tumblr


End file.
